Romanian Poetry

Friday, January 19, 2007

Nichita Stanescu

On horseback at dawn

Silence strikes the tree trunks, upon itself retracing,turns to distance, turns to sand.I have turned my only face toward the sun,my shoulders scatter leaves in this racing.Cutting through the field - up on two shoesmy horse leaps, steaming, from the clay.Ave, I am turning to you, I, Ave!The sun has burst across the heavens, crying.

Stone drums are sounding, the sun grows,the vault of heaven, alive with eagles, before him,collapses into steps of air, and glows.Silence turns to blue wind,the spur of my shadow growsin the ribs of the field.

The sun snaps the horizon in two.The vault of heaven pulls down its dying prison cells.Blue spears, with no returning,I discard my visions, both of themthey meet him, sweet and grave.My horse rises on two shoes.Ave, tide of light, ave!

The sun ascends from objects, crying,shakes the borders, voiceless and grave.My soul meets Him, Ave!My horse rises on two shoes.My pale mane burns on the wind.

George Cosbuc

Three, mighty God, all three!

He had three sons and they, all three,When called, for the encampment left;So the poor father was bereftOf rest and peace, for war, thought he.Is hard - one has no time to feelThat one has ceased to be.

And many months went in and out,And rife with tidings was the world:No more were Turkish flags unfurled,The Moslems had been put to rout,For the unscarred Romanian ladsFull well had fought throughout.

The papers wrote that all the menThat had been called the spring beforeWere due to quit the site of war;So to the village came againNow one, and now another yetOf those who had left then.

But they were long in coming, they.He wept - he thought how they would meet,So at the gate or in the streetHe scrutinized the roads all day,And they came not. And fear was bornAnd lengthened the delay.

His ardent hope waned more and moreAnd ever bleaker grew his fear;And though he questioned far and near,All shrugged their shoulders as before;At last, then, he went to the barracksTo learn what was in store.

The corporal met him. "Sir, my son.My Radu, well - how does he fare ?"He did for all his children care,But Radu was the dearest one."He's dead. In the first ranks, at PlevnaHe fell. And well he's done !"

Poor man... That Radu was in dustHe had long felt, and felt past cure;But now, when he did know for sure,He stood bewildered and nonplussed.Dead Radu ? What ? The news exceededAll human sense and trust.

Be curst, o, fiendish arm and man !"And how is George ?" "Sir, I'm afraidUnder a cross he has been laid,Breast-smitten by a yataghan.""And my poor Mircea ?" "Mircea, too,Died somewhere near Smirdan."

He said no word - dumb with the doom,With forehead bent, like, on the cross,A Christ, he looked, all at a lossAt the mute flooring of the room.He seemed he saw in front of himThree corpses in a tomb.

With feeble gait and dizzy eyesHe walks into the open air;While groaning, stumbling on the stair,He calls his boys by name and criesAnd fumbling for some wall aroundTo stand upright he tries.

The blow he hardly can withstand;He does not know if he is deadOr still alive; he rests his headUpon a bank of burning sand;His long, emaciated faceHe buries in his hand.

And so the man sat woe-begone.It was midsummer and mid-day;Yet soon the sun faded awayAnd lastly it was set and gone;The human wreck would never budge;He just stood on and on.

Past him, men, women walked care-free,Cabs on the highroad rumbled by,Past marched the soldiers with steps high,And then, the moment he could see,He pressed his temples with his fists:"Three, mighty God, all three !";

Sunday, December 17, 2006

George Cosbuc

We want land

I'm hungry, naked, homeless, through,Because of loads I had to carry;You've spat on me, and hit me - marry,A dog I've been to you !Vile lord, whom winds brought to this land,If hell itself gives you free handTo tread us down and make us bleed,We will endure both load and need,The plough and harness yet take heed,We ask for land!

Whene'er you see a crust of bread,Though brown and stale, we see's no more;You drag our sons to ruthless war,Our daughters to your bed.You curse what we hold dear and grand,Faith and compassion you have banned;Our children starve with want and chillAnd we go mad with pity, stillWe'd bear the grinding of your mill,Had we but land !

You've turned into a field of cornThe village graveyard, and we ploughAnd dig out bones and weep and mournOh, had we ne'er been born !For those are bones of our own bone,But you don't care, o hearts of stone !Out of our house you drive us now,And dig our dead out of their grave;A silent corner of their ownThe land we crave !

Besides, we want to know for sureThat we, too, shall together lie,That on the day on which we die,You will not mock the poor.The orphans, those to us so dear,Who o'er a grave would shed a tear,Won't know the ditches where we rot;We've been denied a burial plotThough we are Christians, are we not ?We ask for land, d'you hear ?

Nor have we time to say a prayer,For time is in your power too;A soul is all we have, and youMuch you do care !You've sworn to rob us of the rightTo tell our grievances outright;You give us torture when we shout,Unheard-of torture, chain and cloutAnd lead when, dead tired, we cry out:For land we'll fight !

What is it you've here buried ? say !Corn ? maize ? We have forbears and mothers,We, fathers, sisters dear and brothers !Unwished - for guests, away !Our land is holy, rich and brave,It is our cradle and our grave;We have defended it with sweatAnd blood, and bitter tears have wetEach palm of it - so, don't forget:'Tis land we crave !

We can no more endure the goads,No more the hunger, the disastersThat follow on the heels of mastersPicked from the roads !God grant that we shall not demandYour hated blood instead of land !When hunger will untie our tiesAnd poverty will make us rise.E'en in your grave we will chastiseYou and your band!